


as the world tilts off the dark end

by Lire_Casander



Series: as the world whirls [1]
Category: 9-1-1: Lone Star (TV 2020)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Drug Use, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Not Beta Read, References to Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Notes, accidental suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22879612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lire_Casander/pseuds/Lire_Casander
Summary: The first sip of beer burns his throat like acid. He grimaces, the now foreign taste settling in his mouth like a foul, unwelcome visitor. He keeps drinking his beer, and orders a second one, a third one, before moving to something stronger.
Series: as the world whirls [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644655
Comments: 12
Kudos: 84





	as the world tilts off the dark end

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings. This has several references to **drug use, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, accidental suicide attempt, really really dark thoughts, and angst**.

The first sip of beer burns his throat like acid. He grimaces, the now foreign taste settling in his mouth like a foul, unwelcome visitor. He keeps drinking his beer, and orders a second one, a third one, before moving to something stronger. 

Tequila was never his thing, and whiskey always made him dizzy and not in the fun side of getting wasted, so he sticks to vodka. He signals the bartender and when she approaches he winks at her, charming and elegant like heʼs always prided himself to be. He nods off when she offers him her best brand of vodka, and chooses pineapple juice to mix it with. He almost downs it in one swift gulp, such dire is his need, but he stops himself just shy of drinking half of it. He allows his hands to put the glass down on the counter, shaky fingers nimbly tightening around the glass, trying to find an anchor in the ocean of loss heʼs drifting in. 

He keeps drowning in the sea of tears flowing inside of him, suffocating in the oppressive cage his heartʼs trapped in. And yet he feels nothing — there’s a void where his soul should be, a gaping hole of oblivion where his feelings go to die, alone and abandoned. 

He stumbles out of the bar after two more glasses of vodka, which added to his other three beers make a good mix for an alcoholic. He sighs, lifting a hand against the nearest wall for balance. He thought he was good, out of any real danger; thatʼs why he stopped attending meetings and picking up the phone when his therapistʼs secretary called him. He was recovering. He wasnʼt an addict anymore. 

He knows heʼll always be addicted to the rush of feeling a good high gives him — the feeling of belonging, of being seen, of fitting in. He can understand those people who only drink when they go out with friends, to help themselves become less constricted in the suffocating hierarchy of social interaction. 

Right now he doesn’t feel anything. Alex has made sure to strip him bare of all emotions — good, bad, too strong or not enough — so now heʼs just a shell of who he was. The voices in his head, those that are so similar to Alex’s that itʼs scary, tell him that this is who heʼs always been — a sad excuse of a human being, someone who could never find a job beyond his fatherʼs shadows. The clingy boy who feels too much, falls too fast, gets burnt too easily. Heʼs been searching for a way to be numb, to stop hurting. He knows alcohol will only work for a while, and tomorrow he will wake up disoriented and sick, and choking on the pain and the strife and the sorrow and the guilt that consume him on a daily basis — everything heʼs learned to tame down with substances, everything heʼs sworn off three years ago. 

He’s too far gone in his own world of despair to acknowledge the huge step back that getting drunk is right now. Right now, he doesn’t care. 

The cool breeze hits his face and centers him for a second. He shakes his head to clear his mind, and decides he needs to go back home and keep this pity party for one to himself. The ring remains a dead weight in his pocket, a reminder of what he could have had if he hadnʼt been so focused on himself. Alex has fallen for someone else because he was never around, too busy saving this city from itself, running on adrenaline until the end of his shifts, living on his own in a tiny apartment in Brooklyn because heʼs never wanted to share his insecurities with Alex — the way he heaves in the mornings when the craving for _more_ gets too strong to be fought, the countless minutes in front of his window debating on whether or not opening it and ending things for good. Heʼs never allowed anyone in his little broken bubble of trust, no one apart from his father; there’s no doubt that Alex has needed more from him and he hasnʼt been paying enough attention. This break up is all on him. 

He decides against hailing a cab when he sees someone standing shyly away from the lamplights, by the end of the street, nervously fidgeting with the hems of the hoodie that covers half his face. He knows the stance, he can recognize the signal — heʼs been _selling_ oxy off the streets for way too long; heʼs been buying drugs for even longer. What once started as a way to get through his parentsʼ divorce, through his grades plummeting, through his friends giving him the cold shoulder when he needed them most, quickly became his only tether to a world that kept spinning even though he remained stuck. Heʼs a pro at hiding things, at making up excuses, at going through life half-asleep, since being awake meant heartache and heartache meant feeling and feeling meant vulnerability. 

He doesn’t want to be vulnerable ever again. Heʼs made that mistake for a second time now — allowing Alex in his tiny world even if not completely so — and that has only led to devastation. He has to amend it. He knows how, though. 

He follows the light to the guy by the end of the street, watching him shrink away from the light. He mutters some words, fishes drunkily for some bills, and ends the exchange with a soft brush of fingers, his wrapping around the plastic as if it were a lifeline. He walks away, steps faltering as he finally reaches one of the main streets and hails a cab, the plastic bag a heavy burden in his front pocket. 

He waits until heʼs home, after having paid a way too chatty taxi driver, and climbs up the stairs two steps at a time, impatient to open his door and lock himself up inside. He’s ready, still reeling from the alcohol and the thrill of doing something illegal, something he hasnʼt done in years. His only goal right now is to find a way to end the pain, the myriad of feelings warring inside of his mind. He needs everything to end. 

Consciously, he opens the plastic bag barely seconds after his door is closed and locked for the night. He sniffs it, anticipating the high heʼs about to feel, and trembling fingers pick up two pills, white against the tan in his own skin. _This is it_ , he thinks. _This is when I throw out the window everything Iʼve fought for_. But Alex was his world, and right now all he can think about is how hard life is getting with no urge to keep breathing. For a second he thinks of his father, of the hesitation in showing happiness at his brilliant idea of proposing. He should have listened. He should have known. When did he become such an idiot? 

He pops the two pills in his mouth and swallows, dry and heavy. They sink in his stomach like a missile ready to explode, a ticking bomb with a time set. When they don’t work as fast as heʼd like them to, he fishes for two more and swallows them. His hands are trembling so much that he spills some of them to the floor in his haste to get them into his system. He couldn’t care less. Maybe if he gets enough into him, he will stop feeling so much. Maybe if he gets enough inside his system, he wonʼt wake up tomorrow. 

And isnʼt that one thought to cherish and pursue, tonight. 

He knows he promised his father he wouldn’t relapse. He promised he would behave. But Alex also promised everything was right when it wasnʼt, so he doesn’t understand why he should be held up to a different standard. He just wants the numbness to take over him, so he keeps swallowing. He keeps swallowing and swallowing, until his brain is swimming in his skull and heʼs almost completely numb. 

For a moment he thinks heʼs flying, but he knows heʼs way too far gone for it to actually be a high. He’s tipped over the edge of hallucination, until heʼs reached the realm of his worst nightmares. He shakes his head, but there’s no way to clear it, not with so much oxy coursing through his veins. He takes a tentative step further inside his apartment when he realizes heʼs still in his foyer, but he trips over thin air, his feet not responding to his brain, and he falls forward, limbs unwieldy and useless, a boneless puddle of flesh on his own floor. 

Before he hits the floor, he has time for one last thought thatʼs not for his father or for Alex. Itʼs a cry for help that never gets past his lips, too gone to even function anymore. It’s a prayer and a wish. 

He never feels the blow to his head when it collides against the floor, finally feeling peace in the chaos that reigns in his soul.


End file.
